


Without a second chance

by MyLadyDay



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Blood, Pre-Recall, Shimada Clan, Young Hanzo Shimada, implied canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLadyDay/pseuds/MyLadyDay
Summary: And as swiftly as it had happened, it had stopped. The elders were pleased, finally, after the endless grumbling and complaining about Genji and the lack of honor he had. Genji was...gone. His body still there for Hanzo to look at, but not to recognize as his little brother.





	Without a second chance

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally written for the bullseye zine, for the 'The archer' section

He prided himself on being smart. He  _ knew _ he'd always been smart. And yet he'd only realized what exactly he was doing mid-slash, with Genji crumpled on the ground unable to plead anymore. When it was too late to stop.

And as swiftly as it had happened, it had stopped. The elders were pleased, finally, after the endless grumbling and complaining about Genji and the lack of honor he had. Genji was...gone. His body still there for Hanzo to look at, but not to recognize as his little brother.

And Hanzo? Hanzo was there and oh how he wished he wasn't for once. For the first time in his life, he wished he was anywhere but here in the family home in Hanamura.

Only, the word “home” brought him a feeling of utter disgust, because it had suddenly stopped feeling like a home. As if all the warmth he'd associated with the place had disappeared with Genji.

As if he'd only just woken up from a deep sleep, Hanzo dropped the sword, letting it clatter on the wooden floor. No doubt disrespectful in the eyes of the elders, to treat a family heirloom so carelessly, but no one mentioned it this time. They were praising him, he realized with a start. Despite the blood staining the walls and the floor and almost every inch of his clothes. It was cooling rather fast, seeping through the layers of fabric and onto his skin, cold and sticky and so damn unbearable.

The blood was dripping from his hands, but it wasn't his. He wished it was his so badly. That would make it easier to bear.

"You did well, Hanzo," one of them said, but he had no idea which one, exactly. He was staring at what was left of Genji. It wasn't much, he noted, and it felt like a stab right through his chest, because it was his fault.

"You've fulfilled your duty to the clan," another said, but he still couldn't turn to see who exactly. They all sounded completely the same just then, with the same unbearably smug voices and the same words being said about what he'd done.

He could only nod in reply, unable to form words that would hold any meaning at the moment. But he could turn his back on them and what was left of Genji, to wash the blood off of himself and collect his thoughts and convince himself that it was for the good of the clan. His step faltered for a moment, knees weak and uncooperative, but only for a moment. Then he gathered himself and continued on his way.

Hanzo could only hope his room would be a safe haven, where he could think without being under anyone's scrutiny. But looking around his room, spacious and tidy, with barely anything that distinguished the room as his own, with everything in its place, Hanzo realized he didn't really feel like he belonged anymore. The only trinkets giving the space any air of personality were things Genji had brought and left there, in an attempt to make Hanzo feel...something.

They were all small and random and so old, but Hanzo hadn't had the heart to get rid of them, even when his relationship with Genji had started falling into disrepair.

Hanzo felt it then. The  _ something  _ was regret and it was drowning him, filling his mouth like sea water and making it so impossibly difficult to just breathe. His lungs were burning and the only sound he could make was the choked-off gasp when he realized he wasn't drowning after all.

The tears pouring down his face were hot, almost burning his skin and leaving salt on his lips, dripping down his chin and onto the floor, mixing with the blood that continued to pour from his hands. The soft  _ tap tap tap _ of the droplets against the floor was the only sound he could focus on, because he could hardly breathe, hardly make a sound.

Genji would laugh at him for still having too much pride to cry like he meant it.

Just thinking that tore a sob from his throat, painful almost to the point of bringing him to his knees, and of course it would be Genji to manage that. Genji always brought out the worst in him, and the best. Genji made him feel. And finally, Genji made him realize that he needed to leave.

Genji had talked about leaving the clan behind, and just thinking about that made bile rise into Hanzo's mouth again because it was that kind of talk that got Genji in trouble in the end. But it was Hanzo's fault Genji couldn't leave, and in the moment, it only seemed possible to honor Genji by following his wishes.

Hanzo knew it wasn't enough to atone, but it was enough to honor him, once he'd earned the right to do that.

He didn't have much he wanted to take, once he'd torn off the ruined clothes and left them on the floor, with a pool seeping into the wood along with his tears. He refused to think about how the stain managed to spread so fast. He refused to think about a lot of things at the moment. Like how some of that blood was his. He'd realized that when he took the clothes off and noticed the cuts and gashes along his arms. The long line on his chest. All of them fresh, all of them bleeding and all of them so, so shallow, barely a whisper of a blade against his skin.

He knew, in that moment, that he'd never deserved a brother like Genji, who in the face of death had still refused to hurt him.

Hanzo's hands shook in a way they were never prone to doing, but he was still strong, still able to control himself enough to wash the blood from his hands.

He could still feel it on his skin, even after he'd washed it off, and it only spurred him on, making him pick the several pieces of clothing he could easily fit into a backpack. Now, he wanted nothing more than to be gone from that place, an urge he'd never shared with Genji, but it was slowly sinking in that he'd gone too far this time, that he, himself, was wrong and Genji's wish to be free wasn't as far-fetched as it had always seemed.

Fitting how, even now, it was Genji who was guiding him out, with all the escape routes he'd shared with Hanzo for getting out of the compound to party in the city. Hanzo knew them as if he'd been the one using them for years to go out and live while he was still young.

His legs took him to the armory instead, in search of a weapon, just in case he was caught. There was no going back from this if he was caught, and he knew that well. The swords seemed to glare at him, though, whispering reminders of what he'd done merely hours ago. Had it even been hours ago? It felt like days, months, years even, and at the same time still so fresh, like a gaping wound.

The bow was much kinder, when Hanzo looked at it, and the decision to take it and run from a room haunted by whispers of his misdeeds was easy to make. He grabbed a quiver as well, almost as an afterthought on his way out, barely remembering he'd need arrows.

Sneaking through the compound was the easiest part of leaving. They'd trained him too well to be caught, or to make a sound while he snuck behind buildings and evaded guards that patrolled as if this was a regular night.

The sky was clear, the stars absolutely breathtaking with the way they glistened so brightly. The air felt fresher once he made it over the outside wall, though, and the silence was replaced with voices and laughter and sounds of people walking about and not keeping as silent as possible for fear of being reprimanded.

It felt like he was outside for the first time and perhaps he was, in the way he was now. But once he was out and away from the hands of the elders, the weight of the clan's expectations was replaced by a weight heavier than he'd ever imagined. For a moment, though, he felt free. As free as the cherry blossoms carried on the wind, as he walked through an almost deserted side street. As free as Genji wished to be.

He snatched a guitar case on instinct, as he passed by a group of people probably no younger than Genji had been, to stash his bow and arrows inside, before walking as far away as he could, the weight of his actions growing heavier with each step.

But he could bear it, he knew. He was made to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  
  
  



End file.
